Not Ever
by Heath07
Summary: J/S, S/R, R/L (Scott/Rogue mainly) Possible X2 spoilers. "He wasn't sure if Rogue had planned it that first night after she taped him up and laid a gentle kiss over his gauze covered fist..."


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Title: Not Ever 

Rating: R - mature themes 

Disclaimer: I own nothing, yadda yadda...

Spoilers: X2 - if you haven't seen it, you may not want to read this.

Summary: "He wasn't sure if Rogue had planned it that first night after she taped him up and laid a gentle kiss over his gauze covered fist..."

Pairings: J/S, S/R implied R/L -mainly Scott/Rogue though -chocked full o' angst  
  


Not Ever

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It was two months since Jean died, and two nights after his attempt to have sex with a hooker wearing a red wig--eventually storming out of a Motel 6 with what dignity he had left and a hundred dollar bill dropped for little more than a chaste kiss--and two hours after he'd gotten so drunk he'd put his fist through a wall that she came to him.   
  


Rogue slid into the room carrying a white first aid kit with a red cross splashed on the front, and he had to turn away because the sight of red only reminded him of Jean. He couldn't even look at his own bloodied hand, that's how far gone he was.   
  


He wasn't sure if Rogue had planned it that first night after she taped him up and laid a gentle kiss over his gauze covered fist, but every time after that he knew what she had on her mind as she crept wordlessly into his room and crawled into his bed.  
  


His head pounded for two weeks after Jean was buried. He knew it was because she had always been his strength, his Achilles heel and that she took a little piece of him with her in her head. They always had that connection except in death. In death he was left empty and no matter how hard he tried, he could never find her beyond the recesses of his mind where memories were the only thing holding him together. Even Jean's strengthened powers could not transcend the grave. He never begrudged her that, he just wished she had let him keep a piece of her.   
  


Maybe all of her.   
  


For weeks he had disturbing dreams about digging up her remains and bringing her back to their room, settling her in bed while she rotted away. When he woke up the first night drenched in sweat with silent tears running down his cheeks, Rogue was still in the darkened room watching him sleep. She soothed him, rubbing his back and whispering 'shh' and 'it's okay shugah, you let it out' against his hair, along with other words he never made out but always calmed him. 

He didn't understand at first when her hand moved from his back down his hip over his stomach down to the front of his pajama bottoms. He resisted at first, trying to pull her hand away, but then it just felt too good and he was too weak to see the harm as something tangible yet.  
  


All he saw was red and no one understood that Jean was the only true image he never had to fake. She was red; a solid crimson and dazzling copper. Vibrant and real.  
  


Rogue was white. For a long time he thought white equalled sweet. That she was innocent and pure and white suited her nature. He never knew how dangerous, how utterly addictive white could be. He hadn't thought about blinding white heat, creamy porcelain skin, two soft streaks of hair that she never let him touch. Somehow white became escape and adventure; life and breath. Somehow white became everything.   
  


Rogue touched him with gloved fingers until he thought he would explode and then she sent him into the stratosphere with her lips tightly wrapped around him, a testament to the girl she no longer was. The stars danced in front of his eyes and it was white and shattering and for the briefest of seconds he couldn't see red at all. It was fleeting and it faded, but she takes him to that place night after night now without taking anything for herself  
  


Not Ever.  
  


Soft leather makes his body itch for her and his blood boil over now. She knew what she was doing that night that seems so far away and he still doesn't understand why. Why she gives and gives and never lets herself take.   
  


Logan had called her Marie. Scott tried it once only to be growled at and then her expression softened, but he understood the message clearly. When he dared to speak of Logan, she bared her teeth and left the room without so much as a gloved finger touching him.   
  


He learned fast to keep his mouth shut. To not talk about Jean or Logan or the anguish that weighed on his chest when she touched him...and when she didn't. The pain when she smiled up at him during class as he taught History, tumbling over his words as he spoke on ad nauseam about the printing press just because he wanted to slam down the text and send the rest of the students away so they could be alone. It killed him when she ignored him in the hall when he walked past with the other teachers and she skidded off with her friends without a second look his way. But what hurt worst of all was at night when she refused to let him touch her no matter how much he begged.   
  


Not ever.  
  


And he wanted it. He wanted to touch her more than he wanted air and wanted it more because he knew she would never let anyone touch her except for 'The Wolverine'. Logan. The luckiest bastard who didn't even know it. Would never appreciate it in Scott's opinion.  
  


There was a part of him that knew he was sick for letting her touch him. She was too young, so incredibly young. Her eyes gave her away though. They aren't the eyes of a seventeen year old virgin. They are tortured and knowing; wise and damned at the same time.   
  


When he looks into her eyes, Scott can finally see why Logan stays away. One long look into her eyes and you start to fall, no matter how hard you try--how hard she tries not to let you--you fall.   
  


And you're hers...even if she doesn't want you.   
  


Even if she'll never want you.   
  


Rogue won't let him touch her.   
  


Not ever.  
  


So he watches from the bed while she sits in the corner nearly naked, her hands between her legs and her mouth bowing and twisting in pleasure. She doesn't have to use the gloves on herself, she can freely touch her own skin and he hates that. Hates that she can touch what he never can.   
  


He can smell her well-defined, intoxicating aroma--procured by her own hands, not his--for days, even through gloves and it burns him until he has to have her again in his bed, soothing him...touching him. He wished just once she would use the gloves when she touched herself in that very real, private way so that somehow he may be apart of the intimate gesture. So that what lingers of him on her gloves might find its way to her, inside her in a way that he could never be...that she'll never let him be.  
  


But she'll never let him touch her. Not even on a glove that was once on his skin.   
  


Not ever.  
  


Not as long as Logan roams the earth and his name is the one she calls when she comes.   
  


Not his.  
  


Not Ever.  
  


_____

End.


End file.
